


Orpheus in Silvis

by JackOfNone



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Ancient Rome, First Time, Fluff, Literary Reference, M/M, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone





	Orpheus in Silvis

_Pale, thin, frightened of noise and crowds like a hare,_ Maecenas thought, swirling the dregs of his wine thoughtfully, _but the boy writes like Amphion. He could sing the walls of Rome into place if he had a mind to do it. _Maecenas did not suffer inferior poets lightly; Vergilius, despite all his protestations to the contrary, was not an inferior poet. He wrote verse like he was born to it, which, Maecenas thought, he probably was. This was an age touched by the Muses; Horatius and Propertius were fine poets, and there seemed to be an abundance of fine poets, much to the delight of connoisseurs (of which Maecenas considered himself the chief), but...Vergilius made Latin dance beneath his pen. Hearing his words, Maecenas had no doubt that he was listening to the transcribed handiwork of the gods.

Not Amphion. Orpheus. He could make Pluto weep.

Vergilius faltered. In ordinary conversation this would have been of no import; the boy was cursed, somewhat ironically, with an unfortunate stutter and it had made him rather fretful in conversation. At first Maecenas had thought it cruel that he had been given the gift of composition without the gift of speaking, but when declaiming verse Vergilius's unsteady voice snapped to attention like a truant soldier. Maecenas had never heard anyone read poetry quite like him; he was subdued and pleasant, quite lacking in the bombastic style that seemed to be in vogue these days. One could listen to it for hours and, indeed, that is exactly what Maecenas had been doing; but Vergilius's sudden stumble reminded him why the boy was here in the first place. He'd been quite ill for weeks, and country air was supposed to be excellent for that sort of thing. Well, more ill than usual; Vergilius was not entirely healthy even on his best days, always stifling coughs and steadying himself on railings. Maecenas had invited the young poet out to his villa, and for three days he had wandered about the pastures and antechambers with a wax tablet in his hand, almost totally silent; on the fourth he had emerged with an armful of scrolls and declared that he had at last finished his latest work. Maecenas had suggested that Vergilius should not be reading poetry at all in his condition, let alone for hours on end, but Vergilius would have none of it. He had a new poem, and he wanted Maecenas to hear it, and that was that. Maecenas did not feel the need to object; for such a quiet lad he could be remarkably stubborn. And anyway, this was a poem that would be set before the Emperor Augustus himself. Vergilius tried to hide his nervousness but was not entirely successful. He wanted Maecenas's opinion.

And Maecenas, for his part, was of the opinion that Vergilius's latest work was sublime.

"Vergilius, enough," Maecenas interjected, waving his hand to stop the young poet. "You're sounding ill again." Vergilius stammered out some protest, but Maecenas, distractedly, waved him away again. "No, no. It's high time for supper. No one lives on poetry alone, even poetry as divine as yours."

"My lord flatters me too much," Vergilius replied, casting his eyes down. Maecenas sighed. Vergilius was low-born, and seemed to never tire of reminding Maecenas of this fact. It was an aggravating but understandable affectation -- there were plenty of men in Rome who would take offense at any familiarity from a commoner. For his part, Maecenas could care less how much money a man's father had. Vergilius, after his peculiar rustic fashion, was a fine lad. So utterly guileless in a liar's age. Despite Octavian's (Augustus Caesar, Maecenas corrected himself...he'd never quite grown accustomed to his friend's rapidly accumulating titles) mostly sincere efforts at cleaning up Rome, politics remained as dirty a game as it always had. Which is why Maecenas had always preferred fine wine, food, and wit to rhetoric and platitudes. Come to think of it, Vergilius had argued a case once, hadn't he? Maecenas imagined the young man strutting about in front of an audience of onlookers, stammering through a lyrical but logically weak defense speech. No wonder he'd turned to poetry in the end. Vergilius looked at him strangely, and Maecenas realized he was staring. He glanced away and quickly called for his slaves to bring more wine.

"Tell me about your second Ecologue," Maecenas inquired, when a slave had brought around the first round of dinner. Maecenas bit into a pastry and made a mental note to compliment the chef.

"That old poem? Why the second?" Vergilius replied, then was caught up in a fit of coughing. Maecenas handed him a pitcher of honey wine, which Vergilius poured gladly.

"I'm curious. Tell me about Alexis." Vergilius blushed a little and stared into his cup.

"You should know, Maecenas. Never ask a poet about their pseudonyms."

Maecenas grinned. "So it is a pseudonym. I knew it. Why shouldn't a friend ask? Unless you wrote about someone we know -- someone famous, perhaps?"

"No, no -- nothing like that. No one you've heard of, I'm sure of it. His name..." Vergilius trailed off, tapping one finger on the rim of his cup; it was one of his many nervous habits. "Alexander was his name. He was a poet."

"I don't recognize the name," Maecenas interjected, leaning forward. "I thought I'd have heard every blasted poet in Rome by now."

"A country poet, my lord. And.....a slave of mine. Greek. Learned."

"Curious. A poet slave. And is your song true? Did he scorn you?"

"For a long time. I eventually won him over, if you really must know, but I don't entirely want to discuss the matter."

Maecenas laughed out loud, and Vergilius blushed again."Courted your own slave!" Still laughing, he downed the last of his wine and set his cup down with a thump. "Incredible! Peculiar. Publius, of any young man in Italy, you're the only one I would believe when he says that at such a hot-blooded age he bothered to woo someone he already owned."

"Is it quite strange?" Vergilius inquired quietly, looking quite embarrassed, but whether at his story or at being called by his praenomen Maecenas could not guess.

"Quite. Eminently honorable, too, which would seem to insinuate something about the state of affairs in this day and age." The main course arrived, a lavish and somewhat outlandish collection of dishes that was typical of Maecenas's tastes. Among the breads and cheese was odd foul from the outer corners of the Empire and vegetables with difficult-to-pronounce names. Vergilius ate sparingly, and in thoughtful silence.

"Maecenas," Vergilius said suddenly, after finishing off the last of the olives, "I'd...I've written a dedication for my poem."

"Yes?" Maecenas said. "To Caesar, I'd assume?"

Vergilius looked uncomfortable, and coughed again. A bit of honey wine calmed the coughing fit, and he continued. "Partly. I owe the Emperor much. But...actually, the first dedication is to...to you. I wanted you to hear some of the poem before I put it in."

"I'm flattered," Maecenas replied, and realizing that he sounded somewhat insincere, added "Truly, I am. It's far better than a tedious statue."

"It's not much," Vergilius continued, almost as though he had not heard Maecenas's words, "It's less of a dedication than...I'm addressing the poem to you. The entire work is for you. You've always been so kind to me...the Emperor noticed my poetry, but only because you brought it to his attention. I suppose you know, but provincals are lost in Rome...I can't even imagine how many nameless poets have vanished into the crowd without a word..."

Here Vergilius trailed off, stifling another cough and wincing as though he had a headache. It was certainly the most Maecenas had ever heard Vergilius say at one time. Usually the boy, so eloquent in his songs, bordered on clumsy. And he certainly wasn't prone to speeches. But it was when Vergilius looked up, his face flushed red and his eyes wide, that Maecenas realized that this was Vergilius's bashful attempt at an advance.

He wasn't a pretty boy. Not at all. But then, Maecenas mused, he was not a handsome man.

"Virgin of Naples...." Maecenas said. "That's what they used to call you, didn't they? In your hometown. You mentioned it once."

"They did..." Vergilius answered, confused. "What does --"

But Maecenas silenced his stutter, still tinged with the remains of a provincial accent, the awkward stumble that hid a genius's spirit. From across the small table he grasped Vergilius's shoulders and turned the boy's head to face him; Vergilius, still blushing and now trembling a little, leaned up to meet him halfway, and somewhat incongruously attempted to fix his toga, which was half-slipping off of his arm.

"Publius..." Maecenas whispered when their mouths parted, "...recite something. One of your poems."

"Can't...remember much of what I've been writing..." Vergilius managed, breathless.

"Something older, then. Anything."

Vergilius closed his eyes and began to recite, in the singsong high-low of Roman verse (hexameter, Maecenas thought distantly),

"Now let the wolf turn tail and fly the sheep,   
Tough oaks bear golden apples, alder-trees   
Bloom with narcissus-flower, the tamarisk   
Sweat with rich amber, and the screech-owl vie   
In singing with the swan: let Tityrus   
Be Orpheus, Orpheus in the forest-glade,   
Arion 'mid his...Oh! Ah!"


End file.
